USS Towers Box Set

by Jeff Edwards

  Ann nearly snorted. The damned Eagle Scout thing again. “What about that girl in every port thing?” she asked. “No mistress on the side?”

  Bowie’s smile widened into a grin. “I’ve got the sexiest mistress in the world,” he said. “She’s five hundred and twenty-nine feet long, and she’s made of steel.”

  “I’ve seen her,” Ann said. “You can keep her.”

  Bowie leaned against the doorframe. He was evidently going to make himself comfortable, whether Ann invited him in or not. “Come have a drink with me,” he said. “I want you to meet some people. Sort of friends of mine.”

  He shrugged. “I just met them a few days ago, but I think we’re going to be friends. I hope so, anyway. They strike me as good people.”

  Ann frowned. “I’m not really into meeting people,” she said. “That’s Sheldon’s department. I’m more of a hardware type of girl.”

  “I understand that,” Bowie said. “But these people want to meet you. In fact, they’re pretty excited about it.”

  “Why do they want to meet me?” Ann asked.

  “They’re a couple,” Bowie said. “Charlie Sweigart, and Gabriella Marchand. They just got engaged. They want to meet you, so that they can thank you in person.”

  Ann recoiled. “Thank me? For what?”

  “For saving their lives,” Bowie said. “They were aboard the submersible Nereus. They would have died down there if it hadn’t been for you and Mouse.”

  Ann tried to look past him. “Are they here?”

  Bowie shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to spring them on you. I know you’re not much of a people person. And I know you’ve been having a rough time lately.”

  Ann felt her cheeks go warm. “Did Sheldon tell you that?”

  “Yeah,” Bowie said. “Sheldon and I chat sometimes. He tells me you’re having dreams.”

  Ann didn’t like where this was going. “Everybody has dreams,” she said.

  Bowie cocked his head a few degrees to one side. “Not these kinds of dreams. Sheldon says you’re having nightmares about Pearl Harbor. About the people we didn’t save.”

  “Sheldon talks too much,” Ann said.

  Bowie smiled again, but it was a different kind of smile. “Would it help any if I told you that I’m having nightmares too?”

  His question surprised Ann. “You are?”

  “Of course,” Bowie said. “Believe me, I’m no stranger to bad dreams. It goes with the territory.”

  “What territory?” Ann asked.

  “With saving part of the world,” Bowie said.

  “Part of it? What does that mean?”

  Bowie’s strange little smile disappeared. “In the comic books, Superman gets to save the entire world. But we’re just mortals, and this is not a comic book. We can only save part of the world. And even doing that much takes a hell of a lot of luck, and more sacrifice than I care to think about.”

  “What about the parts you can’t save?” Ann asked. “What do you do about the people who die because you can’t do your job well enough to save them?”

  Bowie slid his hands into his pockets. “I try to remind myself that every doctor and every firefighter faces that exact same question. Nobody wins every time, Ann. We just do the best we can.”

  He paused for a couple of seconds. “And things get worse the minute we stop trying.”

  Ann felt her throat beginning to constrict. “I screwed up,” she said. “When I was programming Mouse to go after the submarine, I screwed up. I forgot to reinstall the software patch.”

  “You made a mistake,” Bowie said. “It happens. You’re fallible, just like the rest of us.”

  “But you could have killed that sub the first time,” Ann said miserably. “Mouse had the submarine located. If my programming glitch hadn’t driven Mouse off task, you could have destroyed the submarine a whole day earlier. Before it had a chance to launch its missiles.”

  Her voice was shaky now. “It’s my fault,” she said. “Those people didn’t have to die. If I had done my job properly, they’d still be alive.”

  Bowie rubbed his chin. “Can I share an observation with you? It’s a bit of wisdom that I picked up from a very intelligent person.”

  Ann gave a half-hearted jerk of her head, not particularly interested in whatever comforting platitude that Bowie was about to trot out.

  “You’re full of shit,” Bowie said.

  His words stopped Ann cold. “What?”

  “You’re full of shit,” Bowie said again. “That’s what you said to me that day in the wardroom, when you reminded me that you had crammed two days worth of programming into a few hours. You were working under incredible pressure, busting your ass to get the job done, and trying your hardest to do it right, and you missed something. You didn’t do it on purpose; you didn’t try to cover it up; and you fixed your mistake the minute you found out about it.”

  Bowie laughed. “You stood right there on my own ship, and told me that I was full of shit,” he said. “And you were absolutely right. Now you want to go back and judge yourself by the same screwed up standards? I’m sorry, but you’re just as full of shit now, as I was then.”

  “But those people,” Ann said. “They didn’t have to …”

  Bowie cut her off. “We couldn’t have gotten that submarine without you, Ann. If you need to fixate on something, try focusing on that. You saved millions of lives. Not hundreds. Not thousands. Millions.”

  Ann didn’t respond.

  “Come on,” Bowie said. “Let’s go meet Charlie and Gabriella. We’ll have a drink, and blow off some steam. And you’ll get a chance to meet some of the people you did save.”

  He gave Ann a serious look. “It helps,” he said softly. “It won’t make all of the doubts and the bad dreams go away, but it really does help.”

  “Where’s the other guy?” Anne asked.

  “What other guy?”

  “The third guy from the submersible,” Anne said. “There were three people on the Nereus, right? You want me to meet with two of them. What happened to the other guy?”

  She stopped, as a horrid thought crossed her mind. “Did he …”

  “The other guy is fine,” Bowie said. “His name is Steve Harper. He won’t be here today.”

  “Why not?”

  Bowie grinned. “Mr. Harper is gearing up to sue NOAA, and the Navy, and the manufacturer of the submersible, and probably the Easter Bunny.”

  “You’re joking,” Anne said.

  “Nope,” Bowie said. “Mr. Harper is suing everything in sight. I guess he doesn’t want to be seen fraternizing with potential defendants.”

  “Is he suing me?” Anne asked.

  “Not as far as I know,” Bowie said. “But don’t be surprised if he gets around to it. That’s part of the down-side of saving the day. Not everyone is grateful.”

  Ann felt herself reach a decision on some unconscious level. She pushed the door closed, just far enough to release the chain. “I guess I can’t pass up the opportunity to have a drink with my co-defendants.”

  She opened the door and stepped back, finally allowing Bowie into her living room. “Have a seat, while I get changed.”

  Bowie stepped through the door. “Thanks.”

  Ann headed for the hall. Just before she left the room, she stopped and turned around. “I’ll go with you to meet these people,” she said. “But it’s only fair to tell you up front. I still don’t like you.”

  Bowie nodded. “I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re buying.”

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  As students of oceanography or climatology will note, I’ve taken a few liberties with the ice formations in the Sea of Okhotsk. I’ve described the location and geography accurately, and the surface topography of the ice is every bit as rugged as I’ve depicted it, but the density and coverage of the winter ice pack are not as heavy as my story suggests. From late February through early March, the ice in the Sea of Okhot
sk is often 30 to 50 inches thick, but less than half of the sea will freeze over during a typical winter.

  These exaggerations were strictly for dramatic purposes. The Soviet Navy actually did hide ballistic missile submarines under the ice pack in the Sea of Okhotsk during the Cold War, and the practice may still continue under the new Russian Navy. I didn’t invent the strategy. I simply embellished the size and thickness of the ice pack to make the task of going after the rogue missile submarine a little tougher for the crew of USS Towers.

  I’ve also exercised a bit of artistic license in my portrayal of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The real world mission of the DIA is to provide timely, objective, and cogent military intelligence to warfighters, defense planners, and national security policymakers.

  DIA agents don’t generally conduct the kind of field operations that I’ve written about in The Seventh Angel. They are unlikely to stash wounded foreign intelligence operatives in U.S. military hospitals, and they don’t customarily threaten to shoot people for breaches of security protocol. If such extreme actions ever become necessary, the DIA will probably not be called upon to handle the dirty work. I thought it would be fun to let a couple of DIA agents do some cowboy stuff, even if only in the pages of a novel.

  I’m sorry to report that I did not invent or exaggerate the tragic condition of the Russian Federation’s nuclear forces. When I wrote this book, the Russian military was in an advanced state of decay and their news media was openly stating that the integrity and security of the massive post-Soviet nuclear arsenal were in serious jeopardy.

  The Russian government has since embarked on a series of major funding initiatives to halt and (eventually) reverse this dangerous trend. At the time of this writing, it appears that they’re beginning to make progress.

  As strange as it sounds, I believe that a stable Russian military is better for global security than one on the verge of disintegration. If their military collapses, the thousands of remaining nuclear weapons in the Russian stockpile will not magically evaporate. Every one of those warheads will ultimately fall into someone’s hands. In that unhappy event, we cannot predict who’ll gain control over those weapons, or what their agendas might turn out to be.

  In the writing of this book, I’ve deliberately created tense situations. I’m a thriller author, and there are no thrills without a sense of danger and dramatic tension. But I didn’t invent many of the scariest parts of this story. I simply looked at the current climate of world affairs, and wrote what I saw.

  — Jeff Edwards

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the following people for their assistance in making this book a reality:

  Rear Admiral John J. Waickwicz, USN (Retired), former Commander Naval Mine and Anti-Submarine Warfare Command for his invaluable technical advice and sharp editorial eye; Lieutenant (junior grade) Bryan Wagonseller of the National/Naval Ice Center for his help in understanding ice formations in the Sea of Okhotsk; Bill St. Lawrence for sharing his extensive knowledge of ice-drilling technologies; Peter Bordokoff, Liza Pariser, and Ian Kharitonov for their exceptional Russian language skills; Captain Valery Grigoriev, Russian Navy (Retired), for his help with Russian naval language and Russian Navy procedures; novelist and former Trident submarine officer John R. Monteith for giving me a basic unclassified understanding of ballistic missile trajectories; Master Gunnery Sergeant (EOD) Samuel A. Larter, USMC (Retired) and Sergeant Major R. A. “Skip” Paradine, Jr., USMC (Retired), for answering my questions about Explosive Ordnance Disposal as conducted by the U.S. Marine Corps; Staff Sergeant Justin Schafer, U.S. Army, for help with small arms and the M-4 carbine; Brenda Edwards for her diligent assistance in locating map resources and her excellent editorial advice; Robert MacDougall for his help with ballistic missile defense; OS2 Rob Andrews of the U.S. Coast Guard Navigation Center for refreshing my memory on matters of ship navigation; Kenneth R. Gerhart of the Defense Intelligence Agency for answering my questions about the DIA.

  There were other contributors who are not named here, by their own request, or through oversight on my part. In every case, the information I received from these people was superb. Any inaccuracies found here are either the products of artistic license, or my own mistakes. Such errors are in no way the fault of my contributors.

  I also owe a debt of gratitude to model builder and prop maker Frank Cerney for scratch building me an extraordinary model of the MOUSE prototype.

  Finally, I would like to thank my editor and friend, the late (and greatly missed) Don Gerrard, for knowing when to encourage me, when to challenge me, when to kick me into shape, and when to get the hell out of the way and let me run.

  SWORD OF SHIVA

  Jeff Edwards

  San Diego

  To my mother, Mary Bowers,

  who infected me with the reading gene almost before I could walk. For years of wonderful stories, for pinching pennies to buy me my first typewriter, and for having the vision to see my future as a writer before I saw it myself.

  “If the radiance of a thousand suns

  Were to burst at once into the sky,

  That would be like the splendor of the mighty one.

  I am become Death,

  The shatterer of worlds.

  Lord Shiva, the Hindu God of Destruction

  (The Bhagavad Gita)

  PROLOGUE

  QINGHAI-TIBETAN PLATEAU, TIBET AUTONOMOUS REGION

  TUESDAY; 18 NOVEMBER

  4:49 PM

  TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’

  Jampa flattened his body against the half-frozen earth, and felt the rumble of the oncoming train resonate through his ribcage. His stomach was a knot of nervous tension. The pounding of his heart threatened to drown out the roar of the approaching locomotives.

  This was the part he hated—the waiting. Later, after the attack had begun, there would be no time for fear. He would be too busy carrying out the plan. Trying to stay alive, and escape. All doubts would be shoved aside by the need for action and speed. But in these last few moments of inactivity, his mind had time to dwell on all the things that could go wrong—all the ways that he and his men could die—or worse, be captured.

  He had chosen this position carefully. The tracks were twenty meters away. The train would pass at a safe distance. Even so, he couldn’t shake the notion that the great mechanical beast was racing straight toward them.

  The vibration grew stronger, rising through the icy ground to rattle his teeth, and make his ears throb. Jampa imagined the train rearing up off the tracks like a giant steel dragon. He fought the urge to lift his head—to sneak a look at the on-rushing machine—to be certain that it had not somehow left the track, that the heavy steel wheels were not surging forward to grind him and his men into the permafrost.

  He kept his cheek flat against a tuft of shriveled winter grass, and reached for the 80mm rocket launcher lying next to his hip. The fiberglass firing tube was smooth and cold under his gloved fingers.

  The weapon was a PF89 anti-armor infantry rocket, built as a tank-killer for the Chinese People’s Liberation Army. It had been purchased on the black market from a profiteering PLA supply officer. There was something karmic in the knowledge that it would now be used to destroy a train carrying Chinese soldiers.

  A few meters to Jampa’s right lay Nima and Sonam, the other two men assigned to his three-man strike team. If they were following orders, both men would be lying flat, using their rough-woven cloaks to camouflage their profiles against the withered grass of the Tibetan plateau.

  Nima wasn’t the problem. The old man was a drokpa, one of the nomadic herders who roamed the high grasslands and the foothills of the Himalayas, tending yaks and sheep, and wresting a meager existence from this place that foreigners called the roof of the world.

  The old shepherd’s iron character had been forged by a lifetime of hardship. He had patience, and he could follow instructions. Jampa had no doubt that Nima was lying perfectly still, maintaining concealment
until he received the order to attack.

  Sonam was not as disciplined, or as predictable. He was a good fighter, but he was young, and too headstrong to follow orders reliably. He might be lying flat right now, as Jampa had commanded. Or he might already be on his feet, eager to get in the first shot at the target.

  Sonam had grown up in the refugee city of Dharamsala, on the Indian side of the mountains. He had spent his entire life in exile. For him, Tibet was not home. It was a cause.

  He fought fearlessly against the Chinese intruders who occupied the land of his fathers. Perhaps a little too fearlessly. Sonam wasn’t just ready for combat. He welcomed it. He wasn’t satisfied with being a raider. He wanted to be a warrior, and his eagerness for battle made him reckless.

  There were more than two-hundred soldiers aboard that train, and despite Sonam’s frequent claims to the contrary, the People’s Liberation Army was disciplined, well-trained, and dangerous. More than likely, some of those soldiers would survive the crash. It wouldn’t take them long to come hunting for their attackers. The best chance of getting out alive was to hit the train hard, without warning, and disappear before the enemy had a chance to regroup.

  If Sonam followed his orders, the chances of escape were about fifty-fifty. If the young fighter did something stupid, the odds might drop to zero.

  Jampa had gone to great pains to make Sonam understand how easily this raid could go astray, if everyone didn’t stick to the plan. He hoped that some of it had penetrated Sonam’s thick skull, but there was no way of knowing.

  Jampa had to resist the temptation to lift his head and check. If Sonam broke cover early, they’d just have to deal with the consequences. Jampa could not improve the situation by violating his own order, and breaking cover himself.